


Hell or high water

by Come_BackToMe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Being Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Road Trips, Unprotected Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23430382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Come_BackToMe/pseuds/Come_BackToMe
Summary: Geralt’s skirting cautiously around the edges of some quaint little town in Michigan, just shy of what used to be Houghton, when he discovers his very first singing lunatic.-Or the author binged The Witcher on Netflix, got drunk and wanted to write an end of the world road trip for our boys.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

Geralt’s skirting cautiously around the edges of some _quaint_ little town in Michigan, just shy of what used to be Houghton, when he discovers his very first singing lunatic.

Truthfully, he’s been avoiding the area, and in turn what passes for civilisation, for longer than he should have been considering his pickups decidedly lacking in anything more than a half pack of beer and some out of date canned beans. Which he isn’t feeling much alarm over, ‘cause there’s more than enough food out there in the world if you know where to look. He simply doesn’t like hitting the towns unless there’s no other option.

Strangely, and he’s aware this sounds a little bit peculiar, it’s not the dead that alarm him about entering _civilisation_ , more that the people still attempting to eke out a living in their settlements tend to lean towards the type to blow his brains out before having the decency to ask questions first. Or he’s the type to get unlucky enough to stumble over some holdout who’s rigged the very ground beneath them with a labyrinth of traps and pits filled with at best a few well placed stakes.

Lamenting, and feeling all sorry for himself, does nobody any good when he’s got a job to do, and there's always a good chance that he’ll find a family owned pharmacy in these smaller towns. There’s been too many near misses in dozens of Walmart across the country for Geralt to continue being an idiot this far down the line.

Not that it didn’t take him running into the brick wall, so to speak, one too many times to be healthy before learning the lesson.

Though for all that’s he managed to see and feel and taste in this dusty world, Geralt can’t quite rightly recall ever hearing someone serenade a slug. The guys maybe an inch shy of looking Geralt straight in the eye, and he’s clean. Disturbingly clean. Narrow in the shoulders, hair free of the knots and detritus Geralt’s has probably developed since the last time he dealt with it. The curve of the lunatics is jaw is sharper than Geralt thinks it might if he gained a few pounds, if someone fed him something warm and filling, but there’s nothing unappealing enough about him that there can’t be somebody willing to take care of him.

Satisfied that he’s confirmed his thought that the man isn’t all there while he continues sauntering along the sidewalk, oblivious to the fact that he's being watched or that he's gaining an entourage, strumming along on what could be a guitar or a violin for all Geralt cares.

“Honestly Laura you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find inspiration in these trying times.”

The slug he’s referring to is still trying to consume what looks like the knobby tube of a wind pipe, unwilling to give up it’s current prize while still trying to go for the fool in front of it. The small group are definitely slugs, all trailing after him in a series of jerking limbs and long drawn out moans. So really, there’s not much to worry about Geralt tells himself.

“I think you might be right Murphey. Truly there can only be so many words in the world to rhyme with dirty and dismal.”

Mad, Geralt thinks, completely and utterly fucking mad.

He’s in the process of planning the easiest route around the idiot when he hears it. A formless bellow that catches his attention like a dog might a whistle.

The woman’s freshly turned, the blood - and there’s been a lot of it - has dried in a rust coloured bib down her chest, a desiccated tangle of what once was probably a persons guts is draped around her like a twisted pearl necklace. The stench of it, torrid and hot like a summers day, drifts far enough that Geralt can easily pick it up and dissect it from the nearby dumpsters overflowing with trash. Thick as fog, rolling in waves until it balls up in Geralt’s mouth and coats his tongue in a thick fuzz.

The shambler lopes in a… well in a fucking shambling fashion. The name says it all doesn’t it? Geralt didn’t make the rules up on this one, asides from the fact that he fucking did. But it doesn’t mean he has to justify the naming of the newly dead to anyone, even himself.

Anyway, he’s about to intervene when the thing gets close enough that it’s already chewing at the air like a desperate babe, long ropes of saliva swinging from it’s mouth in anticipation. When the man drops down onto his haunches, swings his instrument around with a mighty _crack_ and topples the shambler to the ground with a solid thwack.

Well that’s surprising.

“Please accept my sincerest apologies, miss.” The man stares down at her regretfully.

The woman’s up again, fingers twisting into claws as she comes at him again.

“Oh I do wish you wouldn’t do that,” he whines, fucking _whines_ , “I’d like to state that I take no pleasure in this.” And he topples her over once more in much the same fashion as the first time. "Now look what you've done." He brandishes the broken instrument before catching sight of the slugs bearing slowly down upon them, a deer caught in the headlights.

If he’s a pacifist Geralt’s leaving him here to die.

It’s natural selection.

“You’re going to keep following me aren’t you, my lady.” The brunette sighs as if the jaws chomping away at him are only a minor inconvenience. “I don’t suppose you’d consider staying down would you?” The shambler's already halfway to it’s feet again, leaves a trail of skin sagging loose from it’s face in lieu of a road burn.

Geralt’s truly about to turn around and find another backwater town to loot when there’s a whistle in the air and he’s left staring dumbstruck as a pale hand lashes out ridiculously fast and there’s a hatchet buried near to the hilt in the shambler's skull.

Unbelievably, Geralt makes a sound of surprise.

The lunatic turns. The corner of his mouth ticks up in delight. “My apologies old chap, I wasn’t ignoring you I swear. You just seemed a little shy so I thought I’d give you some time before I approached.” The man looks like he has the intention of coming over to introduce himself once he dodges the slugs circling at his back and frees his hatchet.

Geralt swivels on his heel and gets the hell out of there.

\---

“I could do with a lift truth be told.”

A hitchhiker. Geralt’s managed to find a singing hitchhiker.

He’s in the middle of working his way through the storeroom of the pillaged pharmacy a street down. Damp is heavy in the air, pale green paint curls in the corners and Geralt’s immediate suspicion that this may have been a wasted journey is quickly assuaged by the cracked leather sofa he upturns and a riot of concealed packets rain out onto the floor. Azithromycin, penicillan and a series of painkillers, a veritable gold mine in todays currency. It’s not bad.

What is bad, or should he say fucking annoying, is the idiot casually folded against the doorway behind him.

“Of course I wouldn’t expect to travel freely, I have a wide variety of services to employ as my payment.”

Geralt grunts in what he hopes is a threatening manner.

“Why you’re right, I haven’t even introduced myself yet. Given my birth name is long enough it would take us until next month to say it, and that’s time we can never be too sure of these days, you may call me Jaskier.”

Geralt doesn’t intend to call him anything aloud. It’d be like naming a stray dog. One minute you’re comfortably travelling across the continent, the next there’s a cold wet nose in your face every morning demanding all of your attention in exchange for the slobber it’s dumping on you.

Then the dog dies when Geralt’s back is turned for a fucking second.

No.

He decides to end the one sided conve rsation by charging at the man, not for any real violence, more that he needs to leave and the only means to do so is through the entrance he’s covering. If he also lays down the foundation of fear in the guys heart then it’s a positive, there’s no room for foolishness when you’re afraid so Geralt’s observed in the last half a decade.

Jaskier doesn’t fucking move.

Doesn’t flinch.

Straightens and raises an expectant brow up at him until Geralt almost takes a step back to avoid the fact he’s two inches too close. Jaskier's thumb is resting on the hatchet at his waist, retention strap undone. He had no intention of leaving himself open to attack.

“Move.”

It’s with a half-smile that Jaskier steps aside, and Geralt doesn’t know why it pisses him off until he’s still sat in his truck, keys in hand waiting twenty minutes later when Jaskier props his elbows through the window Geralt’s just rolled down.

“Where are you going?” He intones.

“Anywhere the wind takes me.” Jaskier beams.

Holy fucking Christ.

Geralt swings the door open and tries not to wince as Jaskier clambers inside.

\---

By the time they pull up at the old farmhouse Jaskier’s gotten more words out of Geralt than he may have possibly spoken since the collapse. Including his name.

It’s all rather disturbing.

“So…” Jaskier drawls the word out long and slow, nose scrunching in contemplation. “Let me get this straight, you’re going around the country doing odd jobs to scrape together enough food to last until you reach the next town and start all over again.”

“Sounds about right.” Geralt hums before turning down a beaten track.

“Wow!” Jaskier surmises as they pass what was once white washed fencing.

Geralt would have to agree, by some virtue or the the small armoury the large family have amassed, this little homestead has survived relatively unscathed by the chaos. There’s an endless bonfire burning and crackling a half mile from the main house filled with the charred remnants of their trespassers, probably to keep the smell of death away from the two idle cows grazing nearby.

The humans have the same sunken cheekbones and gaunt look that Geralt’s grown accustomed to seeing by now. There’s an opaque hue to them, like they’re a short while away from drifting past the veil. But they’re still forcing a life out of all this and so Geralt will respect that.

He delivers the antibiotics and refuses the food he was promised despite the ardent protests that say otherwise. However, by the virtue of some slick god out there, he gets two small bottles of milk pressed into his hands before he can retract away.

Now call him sentimental but it’s been a long time since he had anything remotely like real dairy so it's worth more than any bag of trail mix.

Jaskier trills out praises and offers to write them into a song, the pair of young girls peeking behind their mother's fraying trousers are so utterly entranced by him that Geralt for the first time in possibly his life is turning down an invitation for _dinner_. Jaskier on the other hand can’t take the fucking hint and it takes Geralt physically dragging him away by the collar before they can be forced behind a table 

“That could have been fun.” Jaskier pouts at him. As if only after a few hours of each others company he has the right to try and pull that shit.

“Did they look like they had enough to feed us.” Geralt snaps back in answer.

Jaskier’s silence is heavy enough that it weighs down on Geralt’s shoulders until he feels like there’s an unbelievable pressure building, stemming from his own short temper. Which shouldn’t be a problem because this is his truck, Jaskier’s intruding on his space, in the way of Geralt’s contract. So he has nothing to feel wrong about.

It frustrates him enough that he pulls over a short while later and dispatches a small pack of shambler's to release some tension, and not because they’re heading in the farmhouses direction.

\---

“Do you think they’ll last long out there?” Jaskier asks quietly a few hours later.

Geralt’s in the middle of some rather creative driving as he plough's joylessly across what once probably looked like a rolling field from a postcard and instead is a fucking bouncy castle of dips and churned up mud, all to get around the worst stretch of slugs he’s ever seen crowding up the highway. Therefore it takes him a moment to register the question and where he’d usually answer gruffly, with a solitary word or grunt, Jaskier’s staring at him like Geralt’s answer is _important_.

Jaskier’s worried about a family he’s met for a few scant minutes, people who’s lives he’ll never understand truly because he’s never walked in their footsteps, doesn’t share in their pains and their joys, beginnings and ends, and yet he’s still working his bottom lip between his teeth while waiting for another strangers reassurance.

Geralt’s new companion is strange.

“They’ve made it this long haven’t they? Long as their generator holds up and they stay alert then there’s no reason why they won’t keep on going.”

Apparently he’s even stranger for giving in and lying.

\---

Some time during the second stop of their third day travelling together, trawling lazily through a street of neatly spaced houses in a middle of nowhere suburbia, Geralt comes to the realisation that not only does Jaskier like to talk, he likes to share his opinions like an overzealous preacher. Particularly when those opinions refer to Geralt himself, most precisely the food he eats.

“I can’t believe I have to say this to a full grown man, no don’t you roll your eyes at me Geralt.” Jaskier splutters a room over and somehow still catching him out. “The end of the world is no excuse for lowering one’s standards. Surely you can’t mean to survive on alcohol and gas station snacks for the rest of your life.”

Geralt’s resists flipping him a two fingered salute and instead uses the time to cram another packet of cream crackers in his bag defiantly. Where Jaskier thinks he’s going to find fresh fruit and bountiful vegetables is anyone's guess, the man doesn’t offer up the answer either so Geralt ends up tuning him out like he’s becoming quickly adept at.

There’s only a pack of bottled waters under the sink, aside from that there’s nothing promising in the kitchen and Geralt turns towards the cellar with a certain degree of resignation. There’s a lack of rot and filth curdling in the air which gives him an unhealthy dose of faith that there won’t be anything decidedly foul down there waiting to snap it’s teeth at him.

On the other hand it’s a cellar, and as Jaskier points out when he comes to a stop behind him, bad things always happen to those that wander down into the dark. Especially when there’s a wooden stall propped under the door handle.

“I’m just saying,” Jaskier prattles on, “that it certainly wouldn’t be far-fetched to imagine there’s a murderous clown snacking on children down there.”

“What?” Geralt makes the mistake of asking.

“Have you never read a book? Seen a film?” Jaskier’s incredulity cuts short as if he’s hearing something Geralt can’t and that’s just not possible. “Children and beautiful young things like myself always end up going into dark places and getting mauled by filthy, degenerate creatures of evil.”

“Don’t want to save the kids?” Geralt asks instead of pointing out that from the inconspicuous glances he's been taking he's well aware that Jaskier has to be a good decade younger than him. Even while food is scarce and he's certainly got no baby fat spare, Geralt would hazard a guess that he's barely made a dent into his twenties.

“Nope, they’ve made their beds by being foolish enough to go into the creepy cellar.” Jaskier has the audacity to poke and prod at his bicep repeatedly until Geralt shakes him loose. “Now come along, we’ve stayed here long enough.”

Jaskier’s not messing about and there’s a certain degree of panic in the way that his eyes bug out at a low thud that _could_ easily be a large rat scurrying about when Geralt removes the stool. Jaskier still doesn’t waste anytime in vaulting over the couch half blocking the front door and retreating to the truck with a series of long winded swearing.

In the process of grinning and turning the door handle Geralt’s arrested momentarily by the piercing howl that triggers something atavistic and immediate in his brain in recognition.

_No. Nope. No fucking thank you._

The hefty oak door almost splinters with the first impact from the other side, and Geralt’s barely had time to hurdle and shove the couch in as reinforcements when the whole frame starts shuddering.

Jaskier, to give credit where it’s due, has already opened the door for him before Geralt slides into the seat like it’s a home run, turns the engine on a little too aggressively for the old trucks liking, throws it into gear and peels off down the street.

“I don’t wish to appear smug or righteous.” Jaskier stares fixedly ahead instead of checking the rear view mirror reflexively like Geralt keeps doing. “But I would like it acknowledged that I told you so.”

It’s not until they’re picking a hasty, hazardous trail around the debris in the streets and bouncing over the stray slugs that don’t move quickly enough, that Geralt, because he’s a dick, responds. “What if the kids hoarded all of the healthy food downstairs?”

“Fuck off Geralt.”

\---

Jaskier certainly has his… habits? Quirks? Irritating shit that he does solely because it drives Geralt mad.

The incessant chatter that has to fill every possible chance for silence to sit and breathe.

Like now, at three in the morning, when Geralt’s eyes aren’t quite purple-black enough in their sockets from exhaustion where he’ll finally be able to sleep. He should have some peace, the roads clear and empty, and Jaskier has to startle awake from a nap that lasted eleven hours and has left a patch of drool on Geralt’s shoulder he didn’t notice until it was too late.

“What’s your pickup called?” He mumbles sleepily, fights to open those bright eyes like this is a question of great importance that must be answered immediately.

“Who says she has a name?”

“You must have a name for her.” Jaskier pats the centre console like it’s a pet, fingers trailing in what can only be described as a caress. “Every car does.”

“Roach.”

“Roach?”

“Like a cockroach. She’s stuck around this long, reckon it’d take something nuclear to shut her down.” He grumbles, increasingly defensive as Jaskier’s disbelief morphs into a mix of giggling and yawning that shouldn’t sound so _good_. “Go back to sleep.”

And thankfully, for fucking once, Jaskier listens to him.

\---

After the first month Geralt stops trying to ditch Jaskier off at every burned out diner he finds.

Mostly because he almost flips the truck into a drainage ditch when the perky brunette pops up from under the tarp securing their supplies in the flatbed and climbs through the partition window while Geralt’s doing seventy down highway.

Partially after the one time he turns down the snack aisle of a convenience store and finds Jaskier’s fingers clutched in the back of his jacket, knuckles white with the fear of being left behind again.

\---

Geralt isn’t one for being unprepared, and a Michigan winter is most definitely not on the cards for him. There’s a lot of danger wrapped up in the cold. The obstacles multiply, mostly around how fucked they are when the first snow falls. They’ve long since passed the days of snow ploughs paving the way.

“We could find a remote cabin and hole up? I doubt even our tenacious little friends could track us through seventy inches of snow.” Jaskier pipes up while Geralt is contemplating their map while they’ve parked in an overnight trucking lot for a short period. He’s found a particularly lurid holiday sweatshirt and doesn’t have the decency to look a quarter as disgusting as he should.

“I’d strangle you by the end of the first week.”

“I’d probably get a boner if you did.”

Geralt looks upwards and demands patience from a god he doesn’t believe in to help him ignore Jaskier’s bullshit before promptly heading towards the half dozen big rigs littered across the lot. There’s a storm coming in, something nasty that threatens to drum up into a real bastard overnight.

“There’s always the coast?” Jaskier prances after him, two splashes of colour high on his cheeks from the already brisk snap of weather that’s caught Geralt off guard so early.

“Don’t like sand.” He grunts as he steps up onto the running board before testing the door and finding it unlocked. Jaskier’s hatchet finds it’s way up into his outstretched fingers before he raps his knuckles against the window twice to see if anything stirs.

It’s only when he confirms that there’s nothing worse than a thin layer of dust on the rubber floor mats, a few bobbing heads on the dashboard and a long since expired air freshener hanging from the mirror that he turns around to hoist Jaskier up inside.

“Remind me again why we aren’t sleeping in that cosy little motel over there?” Jaskier immediately throws himself down onto the only bunk, legs kicking up in the air before he rolls onto his front and coughs as a cloud of five years worth of dust blows up in his face.

“Because if anybody came along they’d check the motel first.” Geralt answers, _again_ , and restrains from losing his temper by the discovery of makeshift night shutters that should give them some decent coverage whilst still allowing him to peer through the cracks at anything in their vicinity.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice comes out too reedy and hesitant this time.

When he turns around Jaskier’s holding a gun up to him. Almost. Not quite with the way he’s pinching the handle with the very tips of his fingers like he’s afraid it’ll burn him.

“Where’d you get that?” Geralt asks and tries to rapidly reassess whether he should be prepared to do… something. Not that he could do much in the dimly lit cab where even if a shot went wide it’d still probably nick something vital that definitely shouldn’t pour out of his body.

Jaskier’s pupils constrict at whatever coiling tension he picks up on, panics, hands trembling. “It was in one of those.” His head jerks towards the overhead storage and he stumbles forward, freezes when Geralt steps back.

It’s only when Jaskier’s face contorts into something terrified and bordering on hysteria that Geralt’s stupid fucking brain clicks on. “Alright, give it here.” He orders, firm and in control. It works, Jaskier latches onto his voice, whatever demon he’s wrestling with fades into the background as he focuses on Geralt desperately. Carefully he takes the handgun, checks its safety before placing it up on the dashboard out of the way and he’s barely let it go when Jaskier’s plastered against his back, chin hooking over his shoulder.

This time Geralt freezes wholly because he’s unsure of what he’s meant to do here. He hasn’t a clue why Jaskier’s lost himself in a memory that sours and curdles to that he’s shaking hard enough it’s making Geralt’s teeth click together, has him hunkering down with a vice like grip when Geralt tries to turn and see what’s happening.

Jaskier doesn’t want to be seen right now.

So all Geralt can do, while he watches with an abstract note of worry, is awkwardly pat at the hands clasped around his stomach and observe as the first flakes of snow fall lazily to the ground.

\---

When Jaskier sits on the bunk cross-legged the next morning, going through the most likely deceased owner of the rigs music selection and starts to talk nonsensically once again, giving his opinions and critiques on each individual track, Geralt realises something that he wishes was a whole lot more unpleasant than it actually is. Evident only in the form of it’s absence.

Listening to Jaskier speak is charming in the way songbirds are in the morning, irritating in large quantities but when heard sparingly able to fill one with a sense of fondness.

\---

It’s easy enough to drive when the need for sleep can be held at bay with a series of well timed energy drinks.

Even easier when there’s death encroaching from every direction and has been for the last few hours. They’ve been heading south in a haphazard line for the last few days and Geralt’s satisfied with the full, sloshing Jerry cans secured to the flatbed of his truck. He’d topped Roach up earlier in the evening and the judgement call he’d made to be safe might be keeping them alive right now.

Were he prone to do so, this might be the time to dabble in a little bit of panic. But the best he can give at the skeletal limbs he occasionally catches sight of in the rear-view mirror is a rumbling _fuck_ that he shushes immediately, if only that he doesn’t want to wake Jaskier up.

Fate has never liked him, likes to be a bit of bitch to him at times for no other reason than to keep him on his toes. Like, for example, when something flashes in the rear-view mirror and flanks them close enough that Geralt has to press the accelerator pedal flat to the floor. The truck roars forward with a hearty burst of speed and Geralt pats the wheel gratefully when the latest spectre falls back into the dark.

It’s enough to shake his companion loose, Jaskier yawns so hard that an awful cracking noise radiates from his jaw. Geralt would pretend to wince on his behalf if his back wasn’t thinking of joining in.

“How long have you been driving?” Jaskier asks, whilst in the middle of stealing the last of Geralt’s cans.

Which fuck, his hearts going to take the impact of that one day. He’s probably taken at least a decade off his life with caffeine overdose alone. However, on the whole, it’s a more tolerable reality than lying out there in the dirt with his intestines being shoved down a boney’s mouth.

“Geralt?”

It takes him a second longer to remember the question, a minute to work out an answer that won’t get him an earful of high pitched shrieking, and then Jaskier works it out anyway because he’s surprisingly intuitive.

“We haven’t stopped yet have we?” The brunette sags back in his seat, fingernails scratching at upholstery in fright when another drawn out symphony of howls and screeching break through Roach's grumbling engine. “Oh, buggering hell. Are those…”

“Boney’s.” Geralt supplies the only name he has and takes a small inch of satisfaction that Jaskier takes his word for it.

Liberally adds a series of four letter words and flowery, creative cussing into the mix when the sound flares up again. Reaches out and catches Geralt’s arm, slides down and cups his hands around Geralt’s wrist when he’s not immediately shaken off.

Never, even in the midst of the end of the world, or after the collapse when everything went to shit in a hand basket, Geralt’s _never_ been one to fixate on dying. While he’d prefer to have some manner of control over the matter, he isn’t particularly bothered one way or the other.

But there’s Jaskier with his knees drawn up, trying desperately not to fly off into the fucking atmosphere every time the loud bastards outside start up again, and well Geralt’s got no choice but to take this seriously.

Aside from when he has to brake and the tense drawn out moments where he carefully manoeuvres through long trains of cars jamming up the road, or around man made fucking barricades that never did much use other than to cause an inconvenience to the living, Jaskier’s hand grips his tight enough that it disrupts the blood flow in that appendage.

In the interest of saving his right hand after travelling down an uneven stretch of median and Jaskier’s nails break the skin around his wrist, Geralt forcefully spreads the bony fingers and links them with his.

Not his best plan, all things said, while he tries to navigate awkwardly. But it keeps Jaskier calm for the rest of the miserable night.

\---

Not that Geralt will admit that the cadence of Jaskier’s thrumming pulse singing through his skin where Geralt’s thumb lays over it keeps him awake better than any energy drink. Mostly he imagines the man would probably take it the wrong way, draw conclusions where there’s no room for them.

It’s also because he hasn’t got much of an answer as to why he keeps hold of this small part of Jaskier long after they’ve heard the last chorus of death and there’s nothing but open road and the watery grey line of approaching dawn.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a cold afternoon, frigid air rolls off the river and cuts straight through Geralt’s coat in a way that only hastens his pace. Unfortunately it’s not nearly brisk enough to take the heat out of his temper.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier calls after him. “Hey, Geralt, wait up.”

Geralt keeps walking and definitely doesn’t imagine tossing Jaskier into the Huron River.

They’re trailing through, what he thinks is Bandemer Park, something he can’t fucking confirm because like everything else that’s gone wrong today their map is in the smoking wreckage long behind them.

He can still picture Roach, looking up at him mournfully, wheels slowly spinning, chassis broken beyond any of Geralt’s meagre abilities to fix, before bursting into a great plume of fire like something Geralt would have scoffed at in a film when he was younger.

Jaskier somehow made that happen.

“I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

It’s not as if this is the first Roach he’s accosted since the collapse. But she was the best, a real, hardy vehicle that’s done him the last year with no complaint at the terrain he’s forced her over. In fact apart from having a notoriously greedy appetite for gas, he’s never had such a compliant companion.

“Go away Jaskier.” Geralt huffs and finally decides that enough's enough. He’s done.

This time he truly means to leave Jaskier behind.

He does.

Only… A half hour later Geralt makes the mistake of checking over his shoulder when the smell of decomposing corpses becomes more offensive than he can sensibly ignore.

Jaskier’s eyes look suspiciously wet and there’s a growing cavalcade of slugs trailing him, a pair of feral cats just behind and an honest to god crow circling around the lot of them as the brunette tries to look covert in his stalking.

He actually tries to hide behind a fucking bush.

“How the fuck do you manage…” Geralt trails off. Resigns himself to his fate with a lot less fanfare than it deserves, and stomps back towards Jaskier, scoops up the oversized pack drowning his small frame and then frogmarches the two of them forward at a clip he hopes will shake the worst of their new friends off.

\---

It should be said in Jaskier’s defence, that although he’s a mouthy fucker, he’s also good at keeping up with Geralt's furious pace without a single complaint, doesn't say much aside from pointing out a dozen cars in an old lot.

“It’s worth looking into.” Jaskier says as they cross a set of train tracks.

He’s right, annoyingly. Geralt wouldn’t have given much thought beyond stomping through the night along the water trail they’ve been following. He’s done longer stints than this, with a lot worse closing in from behind, Jaskier however does not have the endurance for it. He’s doing a good job at keeping quiet but Geralt can see the pallid tone of his skin as the sun dips lower.

Given the travelling Jaskier must have done over the last few years, primarily on foot by his own admission and the state of Roach, it gives Geralt some thought as to how Jaskier’s made it this far without ending up caught out by his own airheaded behaviour.

There’s a handful of cars dotted about with just enough crap on them that Geralt knows without a doubt they’ve been sat here too long to waste time on trying to start. At the end though, settled between two litters of pebbly glass Geralt will have to take the time to clear away before they go anywhere, there’s an old four by four that looks promising.

While Geralt checks under the hood Jaskier makes himself busy first by scouring the cars around them for anything useful, then taking an inventory of their supplies. When Geralt finally gets the engine running in a not so healthy rattle that he’ll take over walking any day Jaskier whoops with a lot more energy than the effort deserves.

“See, it’s not all doom and gloom.” Jaskier looks more relieved than Geralt at this point.

“It’ll do for now.” Geralt concedes and goes to put their bags in the back.

“What should we call her?”

Honestly? Geralt couldn’t care less at this point. “Roach.”

“Well then, it’s not the most adventurous of names, but we’ll make do.” There’s a suspicious sound of glass clinking.

“Jaskier?”

“I name thee New Roach, may you fare better than your predecessor.” Jaskier crows, and Geralt comes back around the front in time to see him produce a bottle of questionable moonshine that he pilfered from a house they slept in last week and then proceeds to throw it at the bonnet in some maritime attempt at a christening.

But this is Jaskier.

So it smashes straight through the window instead.

\---

_“Geralt, I’m_ _sorry.”_

\---

They hole up in a mattress store a short way down the road. It’s terrible. Too many windows, too exposed, too fucking close to too many other buildings. Maybe the problems Geralt, he thinks as they stack all the furniture available to them against the numerous entryways. He simply doesn’t have it in him to be cheerful about feeling like he’s sealing them into a single glazed deathtrap.

But it’s preferable to being outside right now, with the howling and snarling and fuck knows what else that comes out in the dark. He’s pretty sure he picked up the stench of wet dog, more than one and that’s almost worse than the dead. Wild dogs are pretty high up on his list things not to fuck about with, especially the kind that set camp up near what used to be a metropolitan.

However the dogs mean no boney’s and that in turn means Geralt might get some sleep tonight so he’ll take it.

That and there’s a decidedly blessed silence while Jaskier sets up across the show room, and Geralt’s going to savour the short respite he gets until the man regains his confidence and starts to spout nonsense again.

Which speak, or in this case, think of the Devil.

Jaskier’s muttering begins soon after Geralt lies down, rapids bursts of nonsensical words that he traces into the air with his fingertips until they become sentences. Geralt watches a little concerned, a little confused, a little unsure of whether he’s meant to be listening to this or not. It takes another twenty minutes to realise that what he’s hearing is the start of a song that Jaskier seems hellbent on composing.

Geralt is almost bitter with how _easy_ it is to listen to Jaskier’s words and fall asleep.

A grave, tactical error of course.

He’d like to think that was it for the night, and he’d have probably been able to turn over and ignore the background music of baying and weird, eerie howling that have long since gone over his head when he surfaces in the early hours. It’s more the growing realisation as he tries to do just that when he’s clamped down in place.

Jaskier’s a sneaky fucker.

Geralt decides this when his brain recognises a cold nose snuffling at the nape of his neck, Jaskier so very unaware at how close he came to Geralt instinctively slamming a knife into his gut before he realises that it’s the strong, steady rhythm of a beating heart between his shoulder blades.

Somehow he’s managed to slip an arm underneath Geralt, the other looping above and those calloused fingers are linked like steel around his belly. Jaskier, who Geralt has started to suspect has some deep seated issues, reacts with a series of discontented groaning when Geralt tries to extricate himself from his hold.

“Jaskier, fuck off.” Geralt pushes him a little too hard and there’s an indignant snore and then Jaskier’s leg joins the mix, the long line of it wrapping around Geralt’s waist, the sharp jut of his hipbones digging in.

In the interest of gaining any real form of rest tonight Geralt gives up and ignores the self-satisfied smile buried at the nape of his neck.

\---

Three days later they finally leave Ann Arbor behind. Geralt’s patience tested beyond all reasonable measure, carefully guiding the new _new_ Roach in case - given his luck at the moment - a fucking dragon starts tap dancing in the street in front of him.

He swears point blank that he’ll never let Jaskier behind the wheel ever again.

\---

They make decent progress from there, travelling south without any further hitch as if the gods themselves recognise that Geralt has surely earned himself a break from all of the nonsense he’s been subjected to recently. At the last gas station they'd stopped at for supplies an elderly woman and her grandchildren had requested he help clear out the slugs festering in her barn, a task that albeit easy, still managed to unkink the balls of knotted muscles in his back whilst he first killed, then stacked the bodies together into a small pile to ignite with a quarter of the gas he’d received for the job.

In fact, Geralt would say he feels _good_. Refreshed even given the tension he’d allowed to implant itself along his spine.

The same however cannot be said for his subdued companion.

If either of them should be acting peculiar over that night Geralt imagines it should be him, and he’s honestly moved past it. Considers it a once in a lifetime occurrence that will never transpire again, and that’s just fine. Geralt’s under no illusion that he’s merely a means for Jaskier to travel safely across the country… and that’s. Just . _Fine_.

They pull over for a short break west of Indianapolis, more for Geralt’s legs sake, a stretch that he needs mainly so he doesn’t crack under the constant glances Jaskier throws at him and ending up doing something stupid like asking what’s the matter.

He’s barely pulled up and turned the engine off when Jaskier’s striding off across the asphalt, “I’ll check out the store we passed,” and he’s gone.

Geralt would be worried if he couldn’t see the small hatchet Jaskier totes swinging loosely from his fingers, and after some consideration he decides that the brunette clearly needs to vent some sort of frustration and he’ll return when he’s ready.

He kills the first ten minutes by spreading the brand new map of Indiana he’d found in a gas station that morning, out onto the hood and trying to decide where they should head next. He’s still a little disgruntled at the small folder of maps he’d collected that went up in the flames of old Roach. Not for any sentimental value, but he’d done a pretty decent job of marking out all of the settlements, lingering hordes and past contracts on each state.

Yes, he should have a better memory than that, and yes it’s not the worst thing that he could have lost. He’s frustrated about it anyway.

To waste another thirty minutes he wanders further down the road and does a quick recon of the dozen buildings that make up this little town he’s stuck waiting in. There’s a small music store that was probably run by the sort of person that would have driven Geralt nuts in the old days, a pretentious know-it-all that wore a turtleneck and lectured him on the quality of vinyl. Or he might be thinking of an art critic. Possibly neither and he’s just being an asshole, but it passes the time fairly well as he checks the place out and wonders if he should be decent enough to let Jaskier know it’s here. The positive being that it might cheer the miserable fuck up. The negative being that Geralt will have to listen if he actually finds something he likes and wants to bring along.

Thinking about it, Jaskier hasn't once mentioned the instrument Geralt first saw him with, not that Geralt's been decent and listened to some of the spiels Jaskier is prone to go on when he gets a good head of steam going so it might have slipped his notice.

Actually, if that's the case, it's a pretty shitty thing for him to have ignored.

Jaskier blew up his truck. Geralt rationalises it as they're even and moves on.

Given it’s been an hour and by now Jaskier should be finished doing whatever the hell he’s been doing, Geralt decides he’s been patient enough. He’s still debating whether to share his discovery when he comes off the main road, finds the half dented sign for the small chain convenience store Jaskier said he’d be at, and catches the stink of fresh roadkill.

It’s rather disturbing how quickly his brain slams through _fuck_ to _oh shit_ to _NO_ and finally taking off in a flat out run.

When Geralt slides to a stop a minute later he stares long and hard, and tries to decide whether he needs to laugh or be worried.

“What are you doing up there?”

Geralt is… happily relieved may be the best descriptor.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is less cheerful. Positively ornery Geralt might say.“I’m glad that my predicament entertains you.”

“It does.” Geralt reassures him. Then tries to plan quite how he’s going to get Jaskier down from the rooftop he’s perching on. Ignores the fact that his heart stepped up it’s pace long enough that it’s only returning to it’s sluggish march just now.

How Jaskier got up there Geralt can actually see, so his questions just a case of him being a dick to distract from thinking of anything with substance. A barricade of some kind made by what was probably desperate employees trying to keep out first hoarders then the dozen or so shambler's currently prowling the tarmac in a hungry congregation, and then finally aiding a talkative idiot in his flight for safety.

“I say, if it’s not too much bloody trouble, would you mind giving a hand here?” Jaskier winces as a trio of carts near the middle of the barricade shake loose under the shambler’s claws and fall to the ground.

Geralt’s halfway down the parking lot and so far they’re too interested in the dinner ticket above them to peel off towards him. Which is fine, he’s not quite worked out how he’s going to handle this yet, but even from here he can see Jaskier’s bottom lip sticking out so it’s probably best he keeps the arrogant front until the man’s safe on the ground again.

“You’re not leaving me here.” Jaskier looks like he might cry.

For fucks sake. It only happened eleven times.

“You’ve got the keys.” Geralt calls back.

Jaskier’s face lights up at that, which is precisely why Geralt’s been giving them to him each time they stop. After the trouble of finding a damn car he’s not likely to give it up just to shake his little lunatic loose.

All he's got on him is the kukri blade he’d found last year which is better than nothing. At the very least it gives him a fast, clean decapitation as the first shambler rushes at him, trauma straight to brain that once he starts Geralt's senses heighten, a rush of static that forces everything into another gear.

The trick he’s discovered is that you always have to move, standing still is synonymous with death at this point. So he twists and slides between the gaps that appear like they’re been outlined in a golden filigree, using the upturned carts to trip those too close while he methodically picks them off.

Jaskier’s hatchet whirls and lands in the spinal column of what once might have been a middle aged banker as she tries to circle him. A sight only caught at the edge of Geralt’s peripherals and if he had the time to admire it, he would. Because they’re at least fifteen metres away from the rooftop and considering that Jaskier’s comprised of mostly sinew and bone, that’s one hell of a shot.

When he’s finished there’s a neat ring of corpses littered at his feet and the already precarious barricade has tumbled to the ground louder than the crack of a rifle. They’ve probably got a few minutes before the racket pulls down whatever else is lurking in the area and so Geralt doesn’t think in holding out his arms like he would to a toddler.

“Jump.”

“Really?” Jaskier turns red for some fucking reason. "It's a long way."

“Just trust me.”

He’s kept waiting, watching the stubborn angle of Jaskier’s jaw as he dithers and Geralt’s frustratingly stuck with this disgruntled feeling in his chest that if Jaskier doesn’t jump it means something more than it should.

Something _painful_ of all fucking things.

But…

Jaskier jogs back and then takes a running jump until his scrawny body hits Geralt with far too much momentum than what he’d been expecting. They stagger back a step, almost slide through the gore under Geralt’s feet, but he stabilises quickly enough and his arms have reflexively tightened around the tops of Jaskier’s thighs because of course the idiots overshot it.

Geralt’s going to let him go when he realises one rather awful thing: he’s _touching_ Jaskier.

The tips of his fingers span across the bare skin where Jaskier’s shirt and coat have slid up, and Geralt’s not sure why he’s surprised to find that the man’s warm, hot even, to the touch. He knows this, felt it for himself, and he’s not sure why he’s not letting go now that he’s feeling it again. Why he’s only noticing the long sweep of Jaskier’s eyelashes as they flutter over the delicate skin under his eyes now that he’s got the man curled above him, hair ruffled and sticking up in short tufts, face alight with curiosity and an unfamiliar expression.

Worse than the cacophony of howls that finally spike through his senses, the thick, choking stench that wreathes around them in a tangible smoke, is the reluctance Geralt feels at letting Jaskier drop to his feet before tugging him back towards Roach.

And even worse than that is the firm grip he keeps on Jaskier’s hand long after they leave the convenience store behind.

\---

Something snags at the back of Geralt’s mind, an irregular nudge that keeps telling him he needs to pay attention to something that’s dancing just out of reach. He doesn’t realise that his skins starting to heat up until Jaskier’s twisting one hand free from where Geralt’s taken to holding it and placing said palm over his forehead.

“You’re hot.” Jaskier states with a note of concern.

Geralt takes it for the literal meaning rather than a compliment. “No I’m not.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” Jaskier twists in his seat and makes the kind of face that demands attention, “you need a break.”

Ignoring him, Geralt continues on for another hour until his eyelids turn traitor and start to droop. To avoid the very real risk he’ll fall asleep in front of the wheel and end up doing what he now dubs as a ‘Jaskier’ Geralt concedes to pulling over outside a relatively secluded house on the outskirts of another run of the mill town.

It’s cold enough that he can see each breath crystallise in the air when they enter and once he's checked both floors and deems it acceptable they pull the New Roach into the garage. It’s not a bad choice at all, the old inhabitants had boarded up most of the windows, actual iron bars drilled in a select few, in fact Geralt feels like it’s only fair to tell Jaskier this when they head into the lounge, but when he looks over the brunette’s got this serious look on his face so Geralt sets about shifting the couch in front of the front door on his own.

“What do you think happened to them?” Jaskier asks at one point, and Geralt glances up to see the family portrait hanging above an old drinks cabinet.

“Best not to think about it.” Geralt grunts around the dining room table he’s moving. “You’ll only make yourself sad.” He means it in a nice way, can practically see the melancholy shroud Jaskier’s wrapping himself up in as he makes his way through the same set of pictures that they’ll probably find in every house they’ll end up staying in.

“But they looked so happy.” Jaskier whispers and ignores Geralt entirely to continue wandering through the room.

Geralt doesn’t know how he’s supposed to explain how wrong Jaskier is in feeling like he does. It’s an impossible fantasy to think that you can take every single life that’s passed and hold a place for it in your chest. Geralt reckons you’d explode if you tried. So he leaves Jaskier to feel upset over strangers he’s never met and goes to scope out the kitchen.

One of the more pleasant discoveries he finds on the way is a small stash of camping gear under the stairs. After a short while of fiddling with a small portable burner, fuel for which the previous owner helpfully left alongside a spare sleeping bag, the first _hot_ meal Geralt’s had in a long time is slowly bubbling in a sauce pan. Never mind that it’s canned spaghetti, peas and Campbell's chicken soup - cooked separately because he's doesn't hate himself thank you - distributed in between hastily washed ceramic mugs. It’s hot, therefore it’s a feast.

Better is the solemn, downcast expression that slowly morphs into a delighted grin when Jaskier follows his nose and joins him. Crises averted, at least until next time.

“We could heat up the water to wash with.” Jaskier almost sounds dreamy about the prospect as he chases back his soup with a half full bottle of Gatorade.

On this one thing Geralt can agree. There’s few dreams that can compare to the pure joy of having a bath that’s near burning in temperature. It’s been far too long since he’s lain in anything more than tepid water, nowhere near how he prefers that makes it feel like his blood is boiling. Even if it takes half a day to give him something lukewarm, Geralt will consider that a half day spent well.

Not tonight though, he’ll consider the idea of a warm wash in the morning after he’s gotten at least a few hours under his belt. By the time they finish eating and Jaskier’s finished a, in Geralt’s good opinion, far too long rant about the chemicals that have preserved his favourite soda’s for so long, they’re both yawning excessively.

In fact, it’s the first time in a while that Geralt can’t rightly remember how he ended up climbing the stairs, taking one of the three bedrooms lining the hall and ending up in a bed with a large, heavy comforter. The bed’s obscenely soft and more importantly only mildly smells of the damp that permeates most things at this point, the comforters thick enough it’ll do him well in the coming months and he’s halfway through that thought when he thankfully dozes off.

Unfortunately it doesn’t last.

Years ago Geralt can remember the odd occasion where he’d allow himself to collapse into bed after a long day and sleep like the dead until the following afternoon. Thinking of the literal dead trying to eat him at any given moment has morphed itself into shaking him awake at the slightest breath of wind.

So he’s rolling onto his side in a restless sleep that doesn’t do anything to touch the growing itch behind his eyes, when Jaskier shuffles into the bedroom he’d chosen, door creaking obnoxiously loud.

“What do you want Jaskier?” He props up onto his elbows, aware only that he’s down to his undershirt when Jaskier’s pupils narrow and he lets out a wounded sound.

He’s also shifting from one foot to the other, eyes downcast, there’s a soft knit scarf wound tight around his neck, woollen gloves encasing his fingers… and he’s still got his coat on.

“Cold?” Geralt asks. Remembers that he always had a remarkably high temperature when he sees the difference between them in the reddened pinch along those very, _very_ normal cheekbones.

Jaskier nods.

Shit.

“Come here,” Geralt sighs, lifting the sheet up in invitation.

Like he seems to do everything in life, Jaskier, once he’s decided on a course of action, shows no hesitation in falling down beside him with an extravagant twist and promptly closes every last inch of space between them. Which doesn’t work with the all of the fucking layers he's draped himself in.

“Right get this off.” He tugs the gloves off by the fingers and gestures at the coat.

“If you wanted m-me t-to undress you j-j-just had to say.” Jaskier’s teeth clatter against each other.

“Shut up.” Geralt grumbles. “You’ll feel worse in the morning if you wear everything now.”

Jaskier’s face brightens too much for such a simple task while he shucks everything bar his pants and the spare shirt that Geralt thought he’d lost last week onto the floor, and then…

Yanks Geralt’s arm forward until he’s curving around the brunettes slim body, Jaskier wriggling back until his ass is flush against Geralt’s front. It’s the perfect position for Geralt to rest his chin against the hollow where Jaskier’s slender neck ends and the surprisingly strong curve of his shoulders begin.

Knowing that there’s little chance he’s going to loosen the hands curling around his wrist or it might lead them into a conversation that has no place here right now. Geralt decides to just give in and certainly doesn’t take a quiet gulp of air to inhale the ash and wet grass scent of Jaskier's skin when he settles down for the night.

\---

A decision Geralt sincerely regrets come morning when he’s trying to carefully shift his hips away and trying to extricate himself from the fucking octopus he’s apparently travelling with. This coupled with the morning hoarse ‘Geralt’ Jaskier mutters in his sleep and Geralt decides he needs to promptly re-evaluate a few things about himself sooner rather than later when something clicks in the back of his head with a quiet _oh, huh_.

**Author's Note:**

> So after only having played the third game and watching the show my brain clearly decided it knew these characters well enough to try and write an AU for them :)
> 
> All I can say is I hope you enjoy <3


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